


I'm already gone (A Clue AU)

by feyrelay



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Murder Mystery, Not Actually Unrequited Love, References to Drugs, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Unreliable Narrator, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2020-09-07 08:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: COMPLETE.A Clue AU, but not... quite... what you might expect. Peter is acting in the film Tony's directing, and it's complicating their new relationship and Peter's burgeoning career; Peter's just... done. He's over it. And that was before he got dragged to this dinner party.CNTW = Clue/Cluedo-related shenanigans. No noncon, no underage, and the ending ain't bad, either.[Fills my Tony Stark bingo square S4: "Malibu Mansion" in Chapter 1, S3 "Presumed Dead" in Chapter 2, and T1: "Unreliable Narrator" in Chapter 3.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4Cf72pVciRWMoBYFLyEuTm?si=A4AipHmOQE2Zrmj5CbBpdg).

_ Let it never be said that Tony Stark doesn’t know how to throw a great party, _ Peter Parker thinks to himself as he heads into the Malibu monstrosity that his current film’s director calls home. 

(_That’s what he is, your director, _ Peter reminds himself.)

He’s an actor, after all. If there’s one thing Peter can do, it’s act like this is all okay. Sure, he and Tony have been on several increasingly fraught dinner dates, but that doesn’t mean Peter ought to be expecting him to take Peter’s notes on his character’s lines or motivations.

Peter’s only the one who portrayed the same character in the musical version. What does he know?

He’s only the one who practiced six hours a day to be able to do the fancy footwork the ballet mistress, Miss Romanova, had insisted on. He’s only the one who unlearnt it all when Tony let the production team cut all but the most basic dancing from the final shooting schedule.

Peter lets the wind whipping around the side of Tony’s ultra-modern mansion buffet his hair and whisk his dark thoughts away; he sees Dr. Banner on his way in, wearing a plummy suit and carrying a matching bottle of wine. Peter gives him a friendly smile even as his heart sinks. He hasn’t brought anything for their host.

He’s been standing out there long enough to be awkward, but Peter lets the Ph.D. catch up to him anyway, before knocking on the door. He respects Dr. Banner and the vast amounts of research he put into writing the semi-biographical novel that both the musical and the film are based on. Peter’s glad to be working on this project; it’s always been an inspiring story.

“You might want to try the doorbell,” Banner says, not unkindly. “It’s a big place.”

Peter flushes. He knows it’s a big place. (Tony has to have somewhere that can fit his ego…)

However, before Peter can do more than reach out for the little buzzer, the door opens. It’s Friday, and not Mr. Stark himself answering the door, but Peter is glad to see her regardless. Her brusque but accommodating nature is inviting, familiar. The outfit, however, is not.

Peter and Dr. Banner brush past her, both of them declining to say a word about her stereotypical maid’s outfit. Her red hair is even pinned underneath a white cap. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Um, hello, Friday,” Peter says awkwardly, accidentally talking across Bruce’s, “Good evening.”

“Is it?” Fri manages, grumbling a little as she shuts the front door and ushers them into the front room. “Don’t ask about any of it. Boss is on a _ cinema verité _ kick and he’s thinking of doing a superhero film next. Says he’d like to do something like a gender-bent _ Batman _ installment, with a female Alfred. That’s me, apparently. He wants it to be high-brow, though, pretentious.”

“So he’s testing the concept out on you?” Bruce inquires politely as Peter snorts. He knows for a fact that the academic couldn't care less about Tony’s work. He’s there to represent the source material.

“Superhero movies are so tired,” Peter opines. He’s feeling bratty, jumped-up. He needs the other guests to get there so he can start the show. It’ll be easier once their military stunt coordinator and his plus one are there; Captain Rogers tends to attract all the attention in any given room (well, all the attention Tony hasn’t already commandeered), and his pretty friend—who Peter’s fairly certain is a hooker—does as well.

Additionally, Peter always has an ally in Stephen, his co-star. Stephen hadn’t done _ The Blue Boy of Company B _ on Broadway with him, but Strange is more than up to the task of playing Peter’s wartime lover. Peter finds him a bit clinical during their love scenes but the studio had insisted on cutting all but the most tepid homoerotica from the book anyway, so it’s not a big deal. (Fucking China.)

For long moments, it’s just him and Dr. Banner in the sitting room, looking out over Tony’s fantastic view of the water. The house always makes Peter nervous, like he’s not supposed to be somewhere so expensive and immaculate and precariously perched as it is on the cliff overlooking the ocean. He’s only been here a few times, and it makes him feel like a mistress; he keeps expecting Tony’s nonexistent wife to come scold him for tracking dirt onto her carpets.

Who’s he? He’s just a triple threat (and no threat at all), young enough to still be termed a twink, young enough to play another beautiful boy who Hollywood will sell as the next big thing before they discard him the minute he puts on an extra pound—regardless of whether it’s muscle or fat.

Peter really needs to make it with this movie, which is difficult when Tony keeps getting frustrated every time he tries to ad-lib with Stephen, to spice up their scenes, to bring some extra emotion to their onscreen coupling. Honestly, he knows it’s not his job to supplement what the screenwriters have done with Banner’s book (irrespective of how much of a hatchet job it might be). He knows it’s not on him to make up for Stephen’s strange reticence or Clint’s method hijinks. But, surely, Tony must see that he’s trying.

Maybe it’s their relationship. Maybe Stark doesn’t want to be another cautionary tale of a director taken in by the talent and strung along until his artistic vision is clouded. Peter gets that, he does.

But, then again, Tony isn’t exactly the one hurting for his big break, is he? Peter ponders this as he relaxes into the super-plush material of the winding, custom-made sectional. He needs to get himself under control before Barton (or, _excuse me, Father Barton_ _now,_ isn’t it?) arrives.

Clint is the one most likely to question his mental state, Peter decides. Barton, after three years working the stage with Peter, is fully committed to the role of the army chaplain that tears the characters that Peter and Stephen are playing apart. When the film casting had come through, he’d gone full Method, and joined a local, lax chapter of the Catholic priesthood that didn’t mind his lack of spiritual education. Consequently, he’s never out of character anymore, and will be watching Peter and Stephen both like a hawk.

Peter really needs to get through tonight without arousing anyone's suspicions, without anyone trying to stop him. He needs to show them all how mistaken they’ve been in writing him off, especially Tony. What, so Peter’s good enough for dinner, for wine, for a kiss in a dark car or during a quiet, private evening in this very mansion, but not for when they're around other people, is that it? Tony ignores him at work and barely watches his most emotional scenes with any more of a critical eye than he has to, to get the framing right. Peter’s suggestions fall on deaf ears and he doubts Tony will be any more forthcoming during their fancy ‘dinner party-cum-table read’ tonight. It’s just an excuse to show off anything and everything that Tony is, has, or knows. (Except Peter.)

Peter declines Bruce’s offer of a video to watch while they wait, on the other man’s cell phone, and he does so a bit too emphatically. Bruce sits back quickly; he’s sensitive that way.

Peter sighs. “Sorry, just lost in my thoughts. I was hoping Miss Natasha or the Captain or _ somebody _ would have shown up by now.”

“I see,” Bruce replies mildly, a moment before Peter recognizes he’s just implied that the professor doesn’t qualify as ‘somebody’. He’s about to apologize before Friday returns to the sitting area with Captain Rogers and his friend, Bucky Barnes, in tow.

“Speak of the devil,” Banner greets the captain, his face lighting up. Tony told Peter last week that Bruce has a bit of a military kink, thus his ongoing research into the memoirs and correspondence of deployed GIs of the 30s, 40s, and 50s.

It probably helps that Steve is nearly in full-dress for the party. He smiles handsomely, gleaming teeth competing with his medals and brass. At his side, the probably-hooker is quieter; that’s not unusual, though, by Peter’s estimation. Mr. Barnes has been a constant—if silent—shadow at the captain’s side at every event Peter’s seen Rogers attend since production began.

Peter wonders how much Barnes gets paid. He wonders if he’s in the wrong business. Jesus, but his nerves are frayed. He misses Steve’s answering greetings, trying to get himself to calm down. Barnes is watching him, which doesn’t help.

Peter’s nervousness will only hinder him, will only raise his core body temperature and his need to breathe deeply and his jitters. None of those will do him any favors. He needs everyone to take him seriously, for once in his life.

After all, all these people (and more) are going to watch him die tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

When it comes down to it, it’s easier than Peter would have predicted, keeping the attention off of himself. Father Clint and Miss Romanova arrive together, and that’s enough to capture people’s imaginations for a while, long enough for Tony to show up late to his own party. Tony catches him by the elbow and asks for his help grabbing some glasses for the red Bruce brought with him, and the white Natasha prefers. Peter declines, glancing significantly at Friday’s ridiculous get-up.

“I’m sure Alfred is more than up to the task,” he says waspishly. 

Listen, Peter knows this shouldn’t be the way he goes about this; he knows what he has planned will hurt Tony, shock him even, and that the least he could do is act appropriately while he still can. But this thing with Friday is a microcosm of everything that bothers him about his relationship with the lauded director. Sometimes the older man’s vision for what his next big film should look like leaves the feelings of others in the dust. Tony’s not _ usually _ the type of rich snob to make his personal assistant dress up like the Irish version of a French maid, but in the pursuit of art, all things are permissible in Tony’s mind. It bleeds over into their relationship, too; Tony Stark is famously a generous and supportive partner, a feminist ally, a man committed to egalitarianism amongst those that catch his eye. (And yet.)

Maybe Peter hasn’t caught his eye as well as all the wining and dining would suggest.

Regardless, Tony and Friday fetch the wine glasses for themselves, and Peter slopes off to the washroom, ostensibly to wash his hands before dinner. He does that, but then he also takes a carefully-measured dose of something smuggled in from Montréal. It had been very hard to find; Peter had needed to leverage every last one of his meager connections, although that hardly matters now.

Once it’s done, Peter returns to dinner feeling calmer and happier and more resolute than he has in days. Natasha’s face is impassive as she listens to Strange wax poetic about his gratitude over the fact that the film requires less dancing of him than ever; these two are not friends. The dance professional leans on her arm in a way that pushes her breasts even further against the strapless neckline of her fancy dress, as if bored. Bruce looks on, appearing for once unwilling to talk _ ad nauseam _ about the merits and failings of the adaptation.

Tony, at the other end of the table, holds court with Rogers and Barnes on his left. Peter takes his seat at the director’s right, next to Clint. The trio stops muttering when they see him approach, though Peter catches something about ‘patriotism’ and ‘optics’ as he settles. He’s missed the first course, he sees; Tony shoots him a look that reads displeased.

Peter’s not dumb enough to take it for concern, anymore.

Tony’s dark eyes are on him, no doubt taking in the lines of Peter’s sharp jacket and how it’s now rumpled. Peter had noticed it in the bathroom; he must have been fidgeting. “Where were you?” 

Peter, for his part, lets the shine of the immaculately polished flatware fill up his senses. “Just washing up. You know how I hate these kinds of things,” he answers rudely.

There’s a pause. Peter feels Barnes surveilling him again, notices the shift of the man’s gaudy red outfit in the corner of his eye. When Tony speaks, he’s just as impolite as Peter had been, just as cutting. “Do I?” 

Peter supposes he deserves that.

“Anyway,” Barnes cuts in, voice low and almost silky, “you two were saying something about managing the perception of our project’s pro-military and pro-homosexuality message, for distribution in China and the Middle East?”

It’s the most words Peter’s ever heard out of the captain’s boy-toy and _ of course _ it’s meant to undermine the tension between him and Tony. Also, when did this become 'our' project, Peter questions internally. (Whatever. What’s done is done.)

“Yes,” Tony finally says, thankfully looking away from Peter. “It’s ridiculous. The source material is literally the cross-company correspondence between two men who fought on separate stages in World War II. And I dunno about you gentlemen, but no matter what kind of shit the translators and dub team pull, I don’t buy a story about two people radio-relaying each other for _ six years _ where they’re ‘just friends’,” Tony air quotes obnoxiously.

While Rogers makes eyes at his companion, Peter cuts in. “It could happen, I guess, though I agree something like that sits pretty far outside the realm of ‘platonic’. But then again, I suppose people misunderstand the nature of their relationships every day. Maybe the localization will Sailor Moon it and make them cousins or something.”

Tony, in his pretention, looks pained at the thought.

Peter picks at his salad for the remainder of that course of dinner, not wanting too much food on his stomach to upset his dosage or lessen its effects. Dinner is a quiet affair at their end of the table once Peter has said his piece. Dr. Banner awkwardly tries to engage Natasha and Stephen in stilted conversation, but Clint keeps butting in with a parable or two, and conversation peters out over the entrée as the third course is served. Friday’s hand brushes Peter’s shoulder, but he barely registers it. His eyes are drooping.

As if from far away, Tony picks up the hanging thread of the conversation. “I dunno. Going back to what you were saying, Pete, I. I think sharing something like that over the radio, no matter what the distance or obstacles between the two people, well. It was art, right? Your character sang to the other one every day for 2,199 days. Letting someone share in your art like that… s’gotta be love, am I right, kid? Kid?”

Peter hums. He’s very tired.

Suddenly, there’s a strong hand on his jaw, tilting his face up. Gravity forces his eyelids back from their slump. 

“Peter?”

He’s not sure which he hears first: Bruce’s gasp, Friday’s scream, or the rattle of his own plate as he faceplants next to it. He knows what he hears last, though.

Tony swears a blue streak.

Fade to black.

***

The first thing Peter knows, after the end, is that Tony is very, very upset.

Peter can’t feel himself breathing, can’t even really feel his own heartbeat, and his eyes feel glued shut. So, he’s literally in the dark. But god, he can _hear_ _for miles_ it seems. Everything is dialed up to eleven.

The sound Tony is making puts Peter’s every hair on end. Possibly, Peter has fucked up with this whole ‘death’ thing. 

“Get away from him, Rogers!” Peter hears Tony shout, hoarse already. “Don’t you touch him!”

And then, from down the tunnel, there's Clint taking himself far too seriously and asking if he should perform last rites. Peter wants to snort in amusement, but can’t. He can’t do much of anything, but bear witness. 

Tony, again, frantic. “Are you _ sure_, Strange? No pulse? We should get a real doctor; he might be okay, if you’re wrong. You’ve gotta be wrong-”

“Just because I use my exceedingly abnormal bone structure to book modeling and indie film jobs to pay for my medical schooling, doesn’t make it any less _ real_, Stark.”

“Yeah, well, no diploma yet. You’re as much a doctor as I am a billionaire; I may have significant savings but I’m _ not there yet_, so _ please_, let me call someone. Friday?”

“I’ve dialed emergency services, boss!” the assistant chirps. “They’re asking if he took something?”

“He would never-”

But then, Peter feels fairly small hands rifling through his jacket pockets. A whiff of perfume… he doesn't recognize it, but it must be Natasha then. She's the only woman here besides Fri and Fri wouldn't be searching him like this. “There’s nothing on him," the accented voice says. "If he took something, he must have taken all of it or flushed the packaging." 

“Stop _ touching _ him-”

Captain Rogers speaks over Tony. “Flushed it? He did say he missed the soup because he was washing up-”

There’s a hand smoothing Peter’s hair. “Oh god, oh god, _ fuck, _Peter-”

“Emergency services are en route,” Friday explains.

“Jesus Christ, stop fucking praying, Barton, or I swear to God-”

“Are you threatening a member of the clergy?” Clint inquires, voice grave. Peter mentally twitches with the need to tell him to shut up, but he’s powerless. This is not how he thought it would be.

Still, at least Tony seems to care. He… seems to care rather a lot.

Peter is pulled off the tablecloth and cradled against a shoulder, then hears the sound of a phone ringing. It’s not an incoming call, though. It’s the tinny, secondhand sound of someone nearby dialling out. 

Tony’s voice is very near. “C’mon, Rhodes, pick up the phone.”

Oh. Oh, no. James Rhodes is one of Tony’s oldest friends, Peter knows. He also lives in New York. 

“Yes, Rhodey, please. Can you come out? Yeah, Malibu,” Peter gets between the interspersions of another man’s voice, deeper than Tony’s, on the other end of the line. “No, it’s. It’s not me this time. No, no relapse. It’s Peter.”

It’s very odd hearing himself be talked about like this; Tony is hardly ever so proprietary with him. Peter doesn’t know how to feel that Rhodes knows who he is, and by his first name alone no less, if the vaguely inquisitive sounds he can barely hear from down the line are anything to go by.

There’s a beep that is much easier to make out, then a beat of silence. Peter hears the hum of the air conditioning and the shift of fine material as the dinner guests, presumably, all flounder for what to say.

Tony speaks first, though. “I assume you all realize that none of you are leaving? One of you poisoned my lover, and my best friend is coming as fast as he can to keep me from killing whoever it is, so. Get comfortable.”

Then, suddenly, everyone has something to say.

***

Knowing he has at least eight hours of very careful acting and eavesdropping to do, Peter is grateful when Tony threatens everyone into Peter’s favorite room in the house. Tony carries him and lays him out on the daybed in the room with all the plants. Tony likes the light in here and they’ve spent a few afternoons just inching across the carpet to stay in the sun, like cats, talking about the film and different shots Tony wanted to try. They’ve talked, here, about film school and what a rough environment it had been for a teenage prodigy; Peter had sympathized, still carrying the emotional scars (and the poor relationship with food) from his years on scholarship at a prestigious ballet academy.

Now, he says nothing. Natasha pours a drink from the well-appointed, glass bar cart. (Peter likes the little tinkling sounds.)

It dawns on him then how at home he actually is here.

“Stark, we need to talk about this,” Strange begins, cutting across the delicate silence. “I know you’re upset—anyone would be—but you’re jumping to conclusions. Is there any reason Parker might have been… troubled?”

“Well, don’t ask me, _ you’re _ the vaunted co-star!” Tony spits. “What, he didn’t whisper his troubles in your ear when you were busy sweating above him on camera?”

Stephen blows out a very audible breath. “I’m sorry, did you or did you not just melodramatically proclaim him your ‘lover’?”

Peter can almost (but not quite) hear the airquotes, as well as the answering grind of Tony’s teeth.

“That is enough. If you two are finished, we can begin thinking logically,” Natasha cuts in. “The possibilities are limited. Either Peter had something to be dissatisfied about, in his life, or one of you wanted to hurt him.”

“What do you mean ‘one of _ us _’?” Tony says incredulously.

“What do _ you _ mean, ‘one of us’?” Barton counters. “This happened in your home. You’re not blameless, in any case. The Almighty Father will judge you accordingly.”

“Barton, knock it off or I’ll have you shipped to Rome by way of Budapest. In my handbag,” Natasha warns. Peter wishes he could smile.

The tension in the room shifts away from the dance coordinator and that side of the room in an instant, though, and towards the sunroom door.

Bruce, giving what sounds like a meek little knock on the doorframe, speaks. “Um, the police are here,” he manages, just a half second before a booming voice interlopes.

“Well, hello, fine people! Which way to the crime scene?” says the voice, cheerily. Peter, in his role as the corpse, is mildly affronted.

Tony makes a lost sound, somewhere nearby. It’s half-way between a sob and something else, but Captain Rogers steamrolls over it. “Well, the body is here…”

“He didn’t ask for the _ body_, Steve, he asked for the crime scene.” Ah, there’s Barnes.

“Can we all _ please _ stop saying ‘body’-”

“Indeed, I’d prefer to examine the place where it happened, Mister…?”

“Barnes…”

“Splendid-”

“I don’t talk to cops, though. Steve?” Bucky insists. There’s a heavy sigh as the captain, presumably, gets up to deal with the newcomer.

“Steve Rogers, at your service. It’s in through here.” Peter hears a heavy clap as Rogers ingratiates himself, as if he’d patted the detective on the back or shoulder. Odd, that. “However, I trust none of us will be in trouble over moving Peter in here to the sunroom? Stark was very distraught.”

“Ah… well. I’d normally not recommend it,” the detective admits. “Not that most people attend more than one fatal dinner party in their lifetime, but. In case it ever happens again, friends! Perhaps leave the victim be until the _ proper _ authorities can do their work.”

“Perfect,” Tony interjects. “And when will these proper authorities be arriving, hmm? Or is it just you, Detective Doolittle? Surely you have your shift at 24Hr Fitness to get to?”

(Tony does tend to clam up around men taller and brawnier than him. Peter used to think it was cute.)

“It’s Detective Odinson, actually? In case you were confused; I’ve never heard of any Detective Doolittle, but even if I had, I would _ not _ be him.”

“Oh, give me a break and tell me what happened to-”

“I’ll give you kudos, though, Mister… Stark, is it? You’re the homeowner? Boyfriend? I’ve so rarely seen someone make it to the top of my suspect list so quickly. The only thing more rare than that is anyone naming me anything containing the word ‘little’.” Peter can practically hear the detective’s faux-cheerful little smile, accompanied by a quiet snort of acknowledgement from the direction of Bucky Barnes.

“Uh, excuse me for botherin’, but when do you think the paramedics will be here? Were they right behind you or something?” comes Bruce’s controlled tones. When Odinson answers, it’s slightly less thunderous; he must have turned to face Dr. Banner.

“Oh, I sent them away. Call came in from dispatch that the deceased was already, you know, deceased. Places to go, people to see; Los Angeles county healers stay busy, don’t they?”

What Peter knows to be Tony’s hand tightens on his arm. “You’re not even going to examine him?”

“The coroner can do that, Mr. Stark. If I determine this to be anything but a suicide, they’ll be called in to do a thorough examination. Otherwise, we’ll have your multi-million dollar home cleared of all decedents shortly. Alright with you?”

“That’s _ not _ what I’m concerned with! You need to fix this! Figure out what happened and fix it,” Tony insists, and Peter is grateful that he’s taken his hand away from Peter’s skin. It’s just broken out in goosebumps.

Natasha is the one to state the obvious. “Tony. There’s no fixing this,” she says, uncharacteristically tender.

There’s a shuffle as someone who must be Steve leads Odinson away into the dining room, and then silence settles once again.

Peter barely breathes.

***

What follows take several hours. The detective runs them all like so many racehorses, putting them through their paces. He insinuates pointedly that _ if _a murder has indeed taken place, that it likely was meant to hurt Tony directly. Peter, he points out, didn’t have many enemies.

Proudly, Peter thinks that’s probably true. (He’s his own worst enemy.)

Tensions rise as Odinson puts off making a determination as long as possible. It’s late (or early, really) before he bows to everyone’s need to sleep. Rhodey’s flight is inbound and imminent; Tony keeps them all updated.

But first, Peter finds out more than he ever wanted to know about his coworkers.

The first two to be excused from the process of elimination are Natasha and Bruce. Both have beef with Tony, it’s true, over the direction the film project has taken, and how the elements most near and dear to their hearts have been cut, but it’s hardly grounds for murder. Particularly, Nat and Bruce both famously get on well with Peter, and Peter hadn’t been shy in sharing how disgruntled he, himself, had been about the lower number of musical and historical elements, respectively, that had made the cut.They’d also both been further away from Peter at dinner, seated on the other end of the table. Clint, despite his argument with Natasha earlier, had testified that she’d not even so much as glanced across him at Peter. Bruce had been separated from him by the table itself, as well as Barnes in the next seat from the professor and Rogers next to him and across from Peter. Odinson had quickly deemed them no threat.

And then there were five.

Strange, by all rights, should have been dismissed for the same reason, given that he had headed the other end of the table, opposite the length of their sumptuous dinner from where Tony had been seated at Peter’s left, on the end. However, as Peter’s co-star and at Tony’s insistence, the model turned actor turned med student was still under suspicion. Strange had already put in a call to his agent, making it clear that if they didn’t allow him to leave the mansion, he’d never work with Shield Studios ever again.

Peter is sure the worst secrets have yet to come out, but he’s starting to become concerned at the time this is taking. If the detective doesn’t allow them all to get some rest, soon, he’ll be in big trouble. The magic is wearing off and Rhodey is set to arrive as well.

However, Peter’s prayers are answered when Odinson comes to a compromise. He suggests Peter’s body be locked in the coolness of the now-darkened sunroom, while everyone rests. Everyone sounds infinitely grateful for such a reprieve, and it’s only a few moments before Peter is blissfully alone in the cool dark.

Once he’s free to, Peter moves silent and wraith-like around the room, searching out any way to leave this place. He doesn’t want this anymore. Tony’s voice, over the past few hours, has gone from numb to angry and back to numb. This was a mistake, and now the police are involved. He needs to leave, move on.

He sags against the wall, his search coming up fruitless. He feels as though he could sink through it, he’s so tired and groggy still. Then, the wall starts vibrating under his back. Banging.

Through the wall, Peter hears what he supposes qualifies as a semi-muffled moan. Okay, _ now _ he’s interested. In a daze, he floats to the sliding glass door that separates the sunroom from the rest of the house. He would unlock it, he really would, but he doesn’t want anyone getting into any more trouble than they already are. Luckily, he can just catch a wedge of light coming from the door to the back guestroom, and through it, a mirror. 

Truthfully, he’s expecting Barnes taking it from the captain or something otherwise lewd but not out of the ordinary. Instead, what Peter gets is an eyeful of of Dr. Banner’s pale behind before the stripe of a riding crop comes down over it harshly. It’s custom, peacock-green-dyed leather, and matches Natasha’s dress perfectly.

Peter presses himself to the glass, trying to see better, and doesn’t notice when Tony comes stumbling groggily down the hallway.

He sure as shit notices when Tony shouts, though.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter has the rest of eternity to be grateful for Tony’s dramatic ass. Truly.

It’s only that that gives Peter a chance to return to his body, as Tony shouts bloody murder and wakes everyone up. From the sounds of it, even Nat and Bruce come running, though they take the time to cover for what they were doing. By the time Odinson comes and unlocks the conservatory, Peter is settled back the way he was, corpse-like.

Tony reaches him first, of course.

The older man’s hand is hot on Peter’s cooled skin. “I saw him, he was up, he was awake, he was _alive._ I fucking _knew_ it, I swear to-”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Clint interrupts to remind Tony serenely.

There’s silence, and Peter marvels at the stillness of it before his body is roughly hauled up. There’s a commotion as he tries to adjust to the unexpected shift, then his head and feet are pushing past people’s bodies, and the temperature changes as he’s rushed down the hallway and out of the sunroom.

A wheeze leaves him as he’s dumped unceremoniously on a too-soft bed. Peter wishes he could shift, get more comfortable, but his limbs won’t cooperate. There’s the click of the door locking an instant before someone, probably Rogers or Banner, begins pounding on it to no avail. His body barely reacts when someone who can only be Tony settles next to him in the bed, gathering him up; the thrill that runs through Peter is more mental, more emotional, than anything else.

Through the door, Detective Odinson can be heard. “This is not uncommon where I’m from. Do your strongest not fight against the tide of death, and occasionally win? Strange!”

Peter, for his part, is starting to wonder precisely where Odinson _is_ from.

He has time to think about it while he’s busy being dead.

Tony paces and mutters for a while, and Peter can hear him fiddling with spare cameras and lights. He’s a collector. But finally there is nothing left to do, and Tony brings a soft, clean rag from the bathroom and lukewarm water. He washes Peter’s face and lays a kiss on his hair, openly mourning. Peter wishes he had the ability to overcome the terrible heaviness in his own limbs and comfort him.

As Tony does his gentle work, there comes an occasional knock on the door: Odinson, first, who strangely does not threaten to break the door down like a real cop, and then Natasha. No one is answered, and Tony continues his ministrations, removing most of Peter’s clothing.

The tepid water dries on Peter’s skin, and he catches quite a chill. He shivers violently and hopes Tony doesn’t notice.

When he comes back from dumping the excess water he’s been using to bathe Peter, Tony lays down next to him, covering Peter with a soft blanket. It’s much warmer than the open air, and Peter starts to drift off. It is only Tony’s fingers, insistently rubbing at his sternum, that keeps Peter tied to the here and now. It takes a while, the friction becoming burning and unpleasant against Peter’s delicate skin, but eventually Peter’s consciousness is brought up—dredged up—as if from a deep well.

“Time to get up, honey.”

It’s that, more than anything, that gives Peter his breath back, and he shoots up with a gasp. They almost knock heads. Still half-petrified, Peter turns his head to look his lover in the eye. “Wha-what?”

Tony jerks his hand back from Peter’s chest. “You mother_fucker_-”

“How did you know, though?”

Tony seems to survey him, and Peter looks down at himself. He sees the full-body blush that’s taken over, and the little tent he’s pitching. Tony raises an eyebrow. “Seems like rigor mortis has set in,” he says dryly.

“I think it’s the drug,” Peter argues. Tony looks unimpressed, then fond, then briefly up at the ceiling with a strange look of gratitude. He reaches out for Peter’s face, touching him softly until they both lean down and can face each other on the bed. Peter shivers again, his body temperature not yet risen back up from where it was laid low by the drug’s grave effects. Tony draws the blanket back over him and then returns to thumbing delicately over Peter’s jaw, just looking at him. At long last, he speaks. “Of course it’s the drug, sweetheart. Or, more likely, drugs plural. Jesus H. You don’t even know what was in it, do you?”

Peter bites his lip, closes his eyes, shakes his head ‘no’ against the pillow. He has so many questions, but he’s also very, very tired despite having literally lain deathly still all day. “Tell me how you knew,” he yawns.

“Do you think anything happens with you that I don't know about? Do you think I don’t know every kind of poison a body can have in it, kid?”

But Peter calls his bluff. It’s less about that than about the guilt that’s rising up in him at his own fucked up theatrics, but still. “Bullshit, Tony. You were scared. I heard it in your voice. You were grieving.”

Tony pulls his hand away, though only to seek out the control for the heated electric sheets. Peter is always cold, especially since the times that he's been here, he has fallen asleep in Tony’s bed wearing nothing but bodily fluids.

It’s not his home, but. Peter remembers when Tony had first started changing little things like that, for him. Tony clicks the settings up a few notches, then pulls Peter closer, presumably to warm him up. “I had a moment of doubt. You never know with things like this. It certainly didn’t work out for Romeo and Juliet. That’s why I flipped out when I saw you up,” the older man explains sheepishly.

“Then why let me do it at all?”

The question is hardly out of his mouth before said mouth is otherwise occupied in a toe-curling kiss. Tony has a grip on his jaw, thumb behind the hinge of it and with the clean edge of his nail just tickling Peter’s earlobe. It’s all he can do not to melt into it, or indeed to remember why he shouldn’t in the first place… something about a question he was asking. “Missed you,” Tony mumbles and Peter hums his agreement, which only triggers Tony to breathe him in closer, to let Peter press and lick into him until they separate. Peter smooths his index finger lightly over one of Tony’s dark eyebrows; it makes a tiny smile bloom in the dark. “I just wanted to do that before I said my piece, sorry,” Tony informs him softly, finishing off with a tiny, pecking kiss afterward.

Peter remembers telling him he liked that, that it made him feel like Tony liked him enough to come back for seconds, and subsequently he feels like an ass for not appreciating things like that before. He doesn’t interrupt though. Peter makes a small, affirmative sound so that Tony will feel free to say what he needs to say.

“Do you know why I direct films?” the older man asks seriously.

It’s not at all what Peter is expecting. “Uhmmm, because you’re a genius?”

Tony runs a hand down Peter’s arm teasingly, under the cover. “Well yes, but actually no.”

Peter huffs. This man is ridiculous.

“It’s because there’s so much in my head all the time, stuff that I notice about people that I can’t unnotice, data points I collect and can’t uncollect, photographs of something I see—like stills—that I can’t _un_see. A million tiny things I can’t unknow, you know? And only one way to make people see things through my eyes. They have to experience it for themselves.”

“I kinda know, a little,” Peter admits. “Not all of it.”

Tony nods. “So, did you really think I didn’t notice you drawing away, picking fights, putting yourself down in my stead because your head was telling you that you’re unloved? Pet_er_,” he says, putting a chiding emphasis on the last syllable. “You gotta know better than that, baby.”

This tender act is making Peter want to cry or scream or something. Before he can help it, the question bubbles out of him, "But did you really want me gone? Is that why you let me go ahead with my act?"

Tony catches his wrist. His grip will probably bruise. “I _never_ want you gone. I had hoped _you_ wouldn’t want to go. It’s… unflattering, how much I want you to never leave me,” the older man all but hisses. “I learned with Pepper that people don’t… like that. About me. I’m… difficult. Possessive, she said.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh,” Tony echoes ruefully. “As if you need me to _let_ you do anything, kid. You’re gonna be a star. You’re already your own man. You belong to yourself, as much as I want you to be all mine. I wanted you to know and feel in your bones how much I love you. You needed to see it for yourself, you would have never listened if I just said it.”

And sure, maybe Peter should be focusing on the last part, but all he hears is how this is his fault, his responsibility. And Tony is right, it is. He’s an adult, and he’d wanted to be treated as such by his lover. He’d wanted to be taken seriously…

And _this_ is what he does?

Peter puts his hand on the center of Tony’s chest to push back, away. He scrambles off the bed. “Fuck, I’m so stupid. These are my friends, my coworkers. How could I do this? What did I _think_ was going to happen?”

Tony sits up, though Peter can’t quite make out his expression this far away and in the dark. “I don’t think that you were really thinking at all. You were feeling too much. I know how that is, Peter,” he opines. His voice is too soft, too forgiving.

Peter will _not_ cry. He’s not a girl, not a child. “But someone could have gotten hurt. Now the police are involved. Stephen called his agent. There will be a whole inquiry into this stunt, stories speculating on my mental health. I’m gonna get talked about on _The View._ Fuck.”

Tony scoots across the bed until his legs hang over it, coaxing Peter forward to stand between them. He holds Peter’s waist delicately. "Isn't it lucky that your little francophone friends gave you just enough? Not too much not too little. Wasn't even anything left after your dose, hmm? Daddy took care of it,” he murmurs. He’s watching Peter’s face in the gloom.

Peter tries not to react to the gravel in Tony’s voice, dropped low to plink into the still pond of Peter’s melancholy. “What are you saying?”

"Do you think I don't know every cop in Los Angeles? Do you think any one of those blue meanies drives up the bluffs to my mansion without my express permission?" Tony says, voice not quite a purr, but it’s a near thing.

“Tony-”

The older man’s hands tighten on Peter’s body, and he stamps a kiss on Peter’s sternum, right where he rubbed so hard earlier. "Do you think if I wanted you still and breathing shallow for me, that I couldn't make it happen? Do you think I wouldn't fuck you deaf, dumb, blind, and dead, kid?"

It’s embarrassing, but Peter’s cock gives such a sharp twitch at that that he sways forward with his whole body behind it. He and Tony are collarbone to forehead._ “Fuck,”_ Peter spits, with feeling.

"You want that, don't you? You want it. Back from the dead and daddy's already got you feeling oh _so_ alive again," Peter is told teasingly. 

He nods his agreement, but his head is so heavy, it’s kind of more of a slump than a nod. He shouldn’t have stood up. “M’tired,” he mumbles.

Tony shifts, getting his own legs under him, then takes Peter’s hand. He starts kneeing backwards, pulling. "Too bad, though. I don't think you really deserve to get fucked. Not after what you put our guests through. Raincheck?"

Peter frowns. The charade is obvious and he makes to say so. He yawns first, and puts a knee on the bed.

"No, no. It's no use begging,” Tony informs him airily. “Here's the thing. You doubted me before, but let me be abundantly clear. Hear this, Peter, in high fidelity. I'm in this for the long haul."

“M’kay,” he manages, getting fully on the bed and collapsing down under the covers. “Are you sure?”

"Yes, I am,” says the voice belonging to the hand in Peter’s hair that scratches at his scalp. “And that means you don't get to take yourself away from me, not tragically. Not like that. We’re gonna talk about this. We’re gonna figure out where we each need space, and where we wanna keep each other close. I’ll drive us to every counselor in town if you want, for as long as you want, even if it takes 2,199 days.”

“What about Rhodes. Isn’t he on his way? And Stephen’s agent?”

Tony rubs his back. “I can handle Wong; he’ll behave if he wants an invite to our inevitable wed- I mean… premiere,” the older man corrects himself. “Rhodey _is_ on his way here, but he’s coming just to give you the shovel talk, drink my liquor, go surfing. He’s annoyed, maybe, at worst… annoyed that I’ve found someone as melodramatic as me. Thus your punishment, which is a nice long nap, no rutting against the sheets, now. Gotta look authoritative in front of my best friend. Can’t have you meeting him looking all fucked out.”

“Fuckin’… gay… cliché. Murder mystery dinner party,” Peter agrees with great fatigue. Tony’s hands leave him for a long moment and then come back after a moment of the bed shifting under Peter; they’re slick. He pets at Peter’s thighs, which Peter spreads wider for him, exhaling hot and hard into his pillow.

“Thought you said no fucking,” he mutters.

“No, I said _you_ couldn’t _get fucked._ I’m not sure this counts. This is more than okay with me, if it’s okay with you.” Tony maneuvers Peter onto his side and cuddles up to him, spooning them together and fitting his hot, lengthy cock in between Peter’s slick thighs. They both sigh.

_“Holy-”_

“Plus I gotta keep you warm,” Tony grits out between his teeth. His hips are making the slightest involuntary pushes forward as he fucks Peter without even entering him. “Almost lost you today, I could use a good cuddle.”

“Me too,” Peter gasps in, getting a second wind from sheer sexual overload and reveling in the press of Tony’s lovely, fat cockhead to his perineum. The other man’s hands are hooked around his chest and hip, respectively, thumbing at his right nipple and the low, sensitive part of his belly on the left. He could maybe come like this, just from the mild stimulation, especially if Tony keeps talking in that smoky whisper.

“So when you've finished your… punishment, I'll let you sleep. We can handle everyone else in the morning.”

“What about Detective Odinson?” Peter has the barest presence of mind to ask. He gets the words out just as Tony’s hand leaves his hip to take hold of Peter’s cock. The motion of Tony’s hips pushing up against Peter’s thighs pushes Peter’s cock through the older man’s grip in turn, their bodies one long Pythagoras Switch.

“What, you want to invite him in to play?” Tony asks, chuckling. The vibration and breath behind the words land on the back of Peter’s neck, making all his senses shiver. Tony’s hand tightens and twists.

“What do-”

“I called him. He’s a stripper, honey.” 

“Oh, Jesus, fuck _me_-” Peter swears, laughing and coming at the same time. His body sings with two types of joy and makes a mess of his belly and Tony’s hand. He is allowed to shudder through it, Tony holding him together, before there is a second warmth blooming behind Peter’s balls—over his hole, Christ that’s hot—and Tony is grunting into Peter’s shoulder.

They take a few minutes to catch their individual breaths, though the cause isn’t helped by Tony perversely dragging two fingers through the come along Peter’s crack and using it to dip shallowly into him. Then it’s Peter’s turn to make noise; he moans. 

Tony hums and Peter can hear the smirk in it. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Sweet, so it lasts. Perfect, like you deserve. We've got plenty of time for me to fully ruin you later."

"What about you, hmm? Who gets to ruin you?" Peter pants in the dark. Tony withdraws and wipes his hand on the edge of the sheet, snuggling Peter in closer and tucking them both in.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm already gone."


End file.
